


Mineshaft (Castor the Twin)

by lookninjas



Series: Children's Work [12]
Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Death, Hospitals, Illnesses, Other, So much death, There Is So Much Death In This
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-02
Updated: 2017-04-02
Packaged: 2018-10-13 20:33:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10521315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lookninjas/pseuds/lookninjas
Summary: Luke Skywalker has been bearing witness to death ever since he was a child.  It never gets easier.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is (again) about Carrie. It is also about a lot of other things. It is mostly, however, about death.

He finds himself thinking of the oxygen tank.

He isn’t sure why; if Leia’s on anything, it’s a respirator. A ventilator. Something like that. Big and steady and rhythmic, a push-pull drawing the air in and out for her. Soothing, almost, or Luke’s always found them so. Their mother was on one, at the end. The days she spent sleeping in that hospital bed, her hair spread around her. Like a fairytale. Every time he kissed her cheek goodbye, he expected her eyes to flutter open, but they never did.

But the oxygen tank. Anakin’s. It probably had a rhythm, but Luke could never sync himself to it. It was always jarring, that soft _kssht_ , breaking up his thoughts. He’d hated it, a little.

Anakin hated it too, for different reasons. Or maybe the same. Luke could never really say.

He and Leia used to sleep in the same bed. Before he can remember, but then also when their mother was dying. The rhythm of her breathing felt like the ventilator. The respirator. Whichever. She pushed, she pulled. The air moved through his lungs like magic, like she was breathing for both of them.

He hears it again, the _kssht_ of the oxygen tank, and tries not to think _that’s her_.

Ben is sitting next to his father, holding his hand. Rocking back and forth a little. Staring at nothing. When Luke finally found them, hunkered down in this antiseptic room, Ben looked up and Luke knew what he was going to say. _She’s gone. She’s gone_.

But what came out when he opened his mouth was, “They’re still working. They don’t -- They’re trying. But they don’t know yet.”

Ben was always a bad liar. Even when he was, technically, telling the truth.

But Luke couldn’t ask or argue.

He hears, again, that damn oxygen tank.

 

*

 

Even with their mother, it wasn’t this crowded.

Luke. Leia. Bail. Breha. He was still asking, then, about Anakin. Still calling him _Dad_ , even. Waiting for him to come home. But he never did, and so it was the four of them, their little family.

Then, with Breha, it was Luke and Leia and Bail.

With Bail, Luke and Leia. Han and Ben were there for support, for backup; Lando too, and God how that stung, to finally have someone worth taking home and only Leia there to -- But. It was mostly Luke and Leia, for that.

Now it is Luke, and Han, and Ben. And Poe, and Rey. Chewie and Lando, coming in and out. Finn sometimes. Hux always, in the corner, gnawing his cuticles, his whole body a vibrating coil of energy. He stares at the floor, mostly, unless he’s looking at Ben.

There is no naming the way he looks at Ben.

It’s probably for the best that Luke doesn’t have access to a mirror, himself.

(He was alone, with Anakin. There is still something selfish in him that is deeply glad of that, that it was just him. That no one will ever know.

(Truthfully, it isn’t much worth knowing. Somehow, he still covets it.)

It’s Hux that bothers him the most. He isn’t really sure why. He knows as well as anyone that Hux was devoted to Leia from the moment he got free of Snoke, fiercely so. Even now, years later, that loyalty hasn’t wavered. He was the one that found her, he was the one that pummeled her heart back into beating and kept it there until the ambulance finally arrived. He sat in the ambulance with her; he followed her as far as he could; he was the first and he shows no signs of leaving and Luke should not want him to. He should be grateful for Hux.

He is selfish. And there are too many people. And he cannot force any of them out and he cannot force Hux out either but.

But.

 

*

 

She rests.

Luke can’t.

Lando is next to him, shoulder to shoulder. He has offered. Luke cannot respond.

They stare at the ceiling in silence.

Anakin’s house smelled like cigarette smoke. The walls were yellow, but Luke doesn’t think they always were. He thinks they were white, once. Maybe not when Anakin lived there. Maybe before.

Luke never slept there. The end, the last three nights, he was there but awake. Before that, he would put Anakin to bed and drive forty-five minutes back to Baze and Chirrut, to sleep on their couch. It smelled like incense, there. The walls were pale blue.

_Like my eyes_ , Chirrut said, and laughed, and Baze shook his head.

_If you need to talk about it,_ Baze said, later, when Chirrut had left the room. _We’re here for you_.

It never felt like there was anything to talk about, so Luke never did.

He should call them. They would want to know. It’s possible they already do. Chirrut, anyway.

Luke stares at the ceiling.

Leia is resting.

He’s known Leia his entire life. She doesn’t rest.

 

*

 

On the second day, he finds Ben in the hospital chapel.

Ben doesn’t go into churches anymore. He’s been to the synagogue with Poe once, but it was difficult and Poe is perceptive, and he hasn’t been back since.

Luke doesn’t go to churches either, really. He prefers to pray while commuting. It’s a productive use of his time, and it’s probably better, spiritually speaking, than just spewing profanity for forty minutes straight. He has never done well with anger.

When Ben hears his footsteps, he says, “Sorry,” without turning around. Without checking to see who’s there. Like he knows. “I’m sorry -- I should’ve -- I just needed --”

“It’s okay,” Luke says, although nothing is. He walks down the rows of folding chairs, and settles in just behind Ben. Ben’s hair is past his shoulders now. The tips of his ears still stick out. His shoulders are broad and square as a board. Luke rests his hand on one, squeezes.

“I can’t --” A deep shuddering breath. He lets it out slowly. “I can’t talk about it, Uncle Luke. I just -- I can’t.”

Luke realizes, a little late, that Ben should’ve asked about Leia first. Should’ve worried, should’ve wondered. Should’ve panicked.

_What does it feel like?_ Luke asked, once, and Chirrut’s blue eyes stared out into nothing. _When they… when they pass? What does it feel like, to you?_

_Quiet,_ Chirrut said, finally. Like he’d had to think about it. _It’s very quiet._

Death has never been _quiet_ for Luke.

“Is Rey still with my dad?” Ben asks, when he’s decided Luke doesn’t want to talk about it either. He’s right; Luke doesn’t. Luke isn’t ready to face it. Not yet.

Unlike Ben, he still has the option of pretending.

“And Lando, and Poe, and Hux. He’s --” Luke can’t bring himself to say _fine_. “He’s not alone. No one’s going to leave him alone, Ben.”

A nod.

“Do you want me to sit with you?” Luke asks. “Or do you need space?”

Nothing, for a long time. Finally, “I don’t know.”

Luke doesn’t know what he wants, either. So he stays. It seems simplest.

Ben’s hand finds Luke’s, still on his shoulder. He holds on, tight enough to ache a little.

Luke lets him.

It seems simplest.

 

*

 

The doctors say they have a choice to make.

It isn’t a choice, really. Luke can’t think of a time where there _has_ been a choice. Anakin, maybe, but that was made long before he showed up. And Anakin stuck with it to the last, even when Luke wondered why, when he seemed to hate it so much.

Otherwise, though. It’s never been a choice.

It isn’t really a choice now.

 

*

 

_Would you?_

Leia rested her chin on her knuckles, stared at him with tired eyes.

_If it was really hopeless._ He knew he was pressing; he knew he shouldn’t be. He should have known her answer just from the look in her eyes. He did know the answer. He just didn’t like it. _If you knew you were losing everything, and you’d never get it back. Never be yourself again. Would you keep going, or --_

_I’d have myself cryogenically frozen_ , she said, and half-smiled. It didn’t reach her eyes. Wide dark eyes like their mother, like Padme. She slipped away, too, only it was different then. They were kids. They didn’t understand everything they were losing. _Like Walt Disney. Then you could thaw me out when they had a cure, fix it. So I’d never have to die._

It wasn’t true. She was just placating him. He could see it in her eyes. But he knew he shouldn’t push. _Would you freeze me?_ he asked. _If it were the other way around?_

The smile crept a little higher. _Maybe. Or maybe I’d just have you stuffed and keep you in the spare room. Bring you down for holidays and special occasions. Put you in a Santa suit on Christmas. You’d look good. You’ve got the beard for it._

She smiled. He smiled, too. Then he started snickering and she smiled wider, and then he was laughing and burying his face in his hands and there was something close to tears at the edge of it all -- it never quite tipped over, but it came close.

When the hysterics were over, when he’d wiped the tears from his eyes, Leia took both his hands in hers.

She wasn’t smiling anymore.

 

*

 

He is the last to be with her like this, alone like this.

Her hair is braided, neatly, into two plaits. Ben, probably. It seems like something he’d do, something he’d want for her. And he’s done it enough with Rey that his hands would be steady, no matter what.

She’s still in the hospital gown.

She looks so small.

“I thought about smothering him,” Luke says, and doesn’t know why. “Not -- But nothing was working anymore, and he hurt so much, and I hadn’t -- I hadn’t forgiven him. I hated him. I hated him as much as you did. Maybe more. But he didn’t deserve that. No one deserves that. That much pain.”

The ventilator pushes in, pulls out. Soothing. Rhythmic.

Towards the end the _ksssht_ of the oxygen tank had been something almost like the old man’s eye in The Tell-Tale Heart. He couldn’t bear it. He wanted to rip it out and throw it against the wall. But he didn’t.

He’d never really forgiven Anakin for leaving, so he didn’t.

“Don’t do this to me, Leia,” he says, and takes her limp hand in both his. “Don’t -- You can’t do this to me. I’m not ready. I can’t -- Not you. Please? Please.”

Her eyes don’t open. She doesn’t smile, or shake her head, or sigh. She is at rest.

He will never forgive her for this.

He has already forgiven her for this.

“It’s all right,” he manages, finally. He doesn’t mean it, but he still has to say it. To forgive her, and hope she can hear it. “It’s all right. You would if you could. I know. You would if you could.”

She would. Not for him, of course, or even for Han or for Ben, but. The work, _her_ work. Trying to make a better state, a better country. She would’ve never walked away from that, especially not now. Not now when things were so bleak, when she was finally in a position to do something about it. Her ambition, her duty, her drive --

She would’ve never given that up. Not if she could help it.

But she can’t. No one can.

There’s never really a choice.

“I love you,” he says, finally, because there’s nothing left to say. “Rest well, okay? You’ve earned it.”

And that, more than anything, should bring her roaring back into her body, but nothing changes. She’s gone.

The ventilator pushes, pulls. Luke is going to have to learn how to breathe without her. He isn’t sure how. He wishes, almost, he could stop.

But that isn’t a choice either, not really.

He rests Leia’s hand back on top of the sheet, bends to kiss her forehead. Her skin is warm, soft. Dry. She is so very still.

For just a second, when he looks down at her again, his eyes blur.

Then he blinks, blinks again, and when the tears are gone he goes to tell the others that it’s time.

 

*

 

The doctors say it won’t take long.

It takes longer than anyone expects.

Her heart beats, weakly. She takes in little sips of air at ever-lengthening intervals. Just when it’s been quiet for a long time, so long, _too_ long, another little sip. Another blip on the monitor. As if she’s still fighting to claw her way back into her body. Pull herself back to life again.

It’s awful.

Ben’s eyes get wider and wider, his face paler and paler. His hands twitch. The whole room feels like static electricity, and Leia keeps fighting, and finally Luke snaps out, “Ben. Just do it.”

Ben stares at him, all shock and spark, and Luke doesn’t even know what he meant but he says it again anyway. “It’s okay. Just… Do what you have to do.”

Ben turns to his father.

Han, older than he’s ever been, nods.

Ben looks at Luke. He looks at his father.

The monitor blips and Leia takes a sip of air and Ben stumbles to his feet, hurries to the bed. He bends over his mother, one big hand coming up to cup her cheek, the other stroking her forehead, and his hair falls over them, shielding them from view. He’s murmuring, so low that Luke can’t make out the words.

Probably, if he’s honest, doesn’t want to.

The room goes quiet, like a power outage. Like all the humming machines have suddenly turned themselves off. The background noise of the living world disappearing entirely, everything gone silent.

Quiet.

Then the heart monitor flattens out with a long, plaintive whine, and Ben slowly pulls back.

He stares at his mother’s body lying in the bed. His face crumples. He makes a horrible, hitched sound, then another. Then another.

“Come here,” Han says, voice cracked; he grabs Ben by the arm and pulls him back, out of the way of a nurse coming to turn off the last of the machines. “Come here; it’s okay, come _here_ \--”

“But she’s _gone_.” Ben buries his face in his father’s shoulder, clutches him tight, sobbing.

“I know,” Han says. “I know, I know, it’s okay, it’s okay --”

On the other side of the bed, Luke sits and watches them, and cannot make himself move.

It’s just. It’s so quiet.

 

*

 

After it was over.

After Anakin died.

Luke doesn’t remember driving back to Baze and Chirrut. He must have, because he got there, but he doesn’t remember a damn thing about it. Probably he shouldn’t have been driving at all. But he did, and he arrived, and Chirrut was there, waiting.

They sat outside on the front steps. It was morning. Bright. Clear. The world was going on all around them, life going on all around them, and it didn’t make any sense anymore. Luke had seen by then more than enough death to know that this was the way of things, that the world always kept moving. It never bothered him this way before. It had never felt so wrong.

“I don’t know if I can keep doing this,” he said, at some point. He thinks he said it. He doesn’t remember much about it anymore.

“Then don’t,” Chirrut told him. “Go home. Be with your family.”

Or at least, he thinks that’s what Chirrut said.

Anyway, that’s what he did. He went home. He was with his family.

And then.

 

*

 

“It was in the newspaper,” Chirrut says. He’s in the chapel, ensconced in a folding chair roughly halfway between the altar and the door. “Your sister. She was in the newspaper. I thought we’d better come.”

In retrospect, it makes sense. Even now, Hux is delivering a statement to the local press, his father and Lando standing by for moral support. Luke is, in his own way, very grateful for Hux. It’s hard, because he inherits the work now that Leia is gone and that is -- it’s hard. But Luke is still grateful. For Hux. For his loyalty.

“Where’s your husband?” he asks, and settles in the chair next to Chirrut’s.

“At the hotel.” Chirrut smiles at the altar. “He’s old, you know. Gets tired easily. Says he doesn’t. But he does.”

Chirrut is old, too. His hair has gone almost entirely silver. His face is deeply lined.

Luke thinks, for a second, that soon --

Stops himself. Not ready. Not yet.

“She’s gone,” Chirrut says, head tipped toward Luke.

“She’s gone,” Luke echoes. The silent machines. The lack of oxygen. “She’s -- It was quiet. When she -- It was quiet. It still is.”

Chirrut stares at nothing, at the altar, at things Luke will never see. Then, carefully, he wraps his arm around Luke’s shoulders.

Something inside of Luke breaks.

He folds forward, buries his face in his hands, and just cries. Cries like Ben did, cries like a child, and Chirrut’s hand finds the center of his spine and stays there, heavy, warm. Safe.

 

*

 

_kshhht_.

He startles, blinks awake. A noise… A sound. Something…

His eyes are swollen and hot. He’s so tired. He should be asleep.

Leia is resting. He can’t. Not yet.

“Luke?” Lando’s voice, thick with sleep. His arm is tight around Luke’s waist. They’re pressed together tight enough that Luke can feel Lando breathing, the push and the pull of it. In. Out. “All right?”

Not really. But Lando’s still half-asleep, and Luke should be asleep, and this isn’t the time. Later.

He lets out a soft hum, pushes back into Lando’s arms, tries to match the rhythm of his breathing. In, out. In, out. Push and pull, like a respirator. Like a ventilator.

“As breathing is my life,” he murmurs, and wonders where it’s from. Can’t remember. Probably not important. “To stop I dare not dare.”

“What?” Lando asks, and he still isn’t really awake. Luke’s not so sure he is, either.

“I don’t know,” Luke says. “I’m tired, Lando.”

Lando doesn’t reply. He holds Luke tight, kisses the collar of his t-shirt. Breathes.

In.

Out.

Luke closes his eyes, and his lungs move, and he breathes.

He sleeps.

**Author's Note:**

> There are two Dessa songs called Mineshaft -- this song, and then "Mineshaft II" (which is another title I stole for another story). This song has two versions -- one off the False Hopes album, and then one off Castor, the Twin. Hence the title.
> 
> Luke, at the end, is quoting Paul McCartney quoting John Lennon in the intro to "In His Own Write."


End file.
